


His For A Million

by misslucyjane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, M/M, Sex Work, Sherlock Holmes on the Asexuality Spectrum, Work In Progress, sympathetic jim moriarity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15845643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslucyjane/pseuds/misslucyjane
Summary: For one million dollars: a lover at his mercy! Jobless, homeless and penniless: struggling housekeeper Sherlock Holmes seeks a suitable position of employment. All good offers accepted… Consulting criminal Jim Moriarty seeks beautiful man for business contract on the luxury island of Santorini. Terms: lover for a month. Salary: one million dollars. Training will be given…Prompted by the summary forHis Mistress for a Millionby Trish Morey





	His For A Million

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but we simply have nothing for you."

The employment agent's expression is insufferable -- a smugly condescending smile that begs to be punched, often and with great force.

Sherlock Holmes does not punch him. He inhales slowly and says, as his gaze flicks over the agent's messy and disorganized desk, "Mr. MacKenzie, you have six open positions for a full-time housekeeper at this very moment."

Mr. MacKenzie's smile shifts from smug to forced. "That little habit of yours is indicative of the problem. You make our clients uncomfortable. Frankly, we believe you would be better suited to a different line of work, perhaps something that does't involve interacting with other people. Like morgue attendant, perhaps."

"Not one of my clients has complained about the quality of my work. I anticipate their needs flawlessly."

"Mr. Holmes," Mr. MacKenzie says, his voice dripping with even more condescension than Sherlock thought possible, "your work is fine. You keep a spotless house. The problem is _you_. You're obnoxious, you're rude, you're arrogant." He waves a folder from the pile on his desk, bearing the name of Sherlock's employers two job previously. "Two of our clients have accused you of snooping in their personal papers."

"I do not snoop." Coldly. "I merely observe."

"It doesn't matter if you snoop or observe or bribe the charwoman. Our clients just don't _like_ you."

"They don't have to like me. They just have to be happy with what I do for them."

"If you're keeping house for them, they have to want you in their house." He places a green folder labeled _Sherlock Holmes_ on his desk. "We are removing your C.V. from our files, Mr. Holmes. You are no longer an employee of Hudson Staffing." He leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, the punchable expression on his face begging even harder to be removed. 

Before Sherlock can retort, another agent hovers into view and says, "Oliver, can I consult you for a few minutes?"

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," says Mr. MacKenzie, "good luck with your future endeavors," and rises from his desk to join his colleague. They go down the aisle between pairs of busy desks, and Sherlock hears them laughing. The colleague glances at Sherlock over her shoulder before they disappear into a meeting room.

Sherlock sits very still. The office bustles around him; housekeepers, personal assistants, and au pairs gather their folders and leave their agents to start their new jobs for the day or week or a few months.

He has nowhere to go. 

Without another thought, Sherlock grabs his folder as well as the one beneath it, and strides out of the staffing office with his head high and the folders tucked under his arm.

He doesn't stop walking until he's out of sight of the Hudson Staffing offices, and then sits in a bus shelter and opens the folder he grabbed. It's a blue folder. Blue folders mean premium clients -- actors, politicians, musicians. Sherlock has only ever gotten assignments from the orange folders, clients who are generally comfortably upper-middle class.

The client's name is J. Moriarty, with a respectable address in Chelsea. The details are sparse: J. Moriarty is single, no children, and works from home. He has used Hudson Staffing several times for drivers, personal chefs, housekeepers, and even bodyguards. The latest request has no details aside the recorded time of 8 that morning, as if he'd called the moment the staffing office opened.

Just showing up would be foolhardy. J. Moriarty probably already has a housekeeper and all the rest; whatever he requested this morning, Sherlock Holmes is probably not it.

But the rumble in his empty stomach reminds Sherlock: fortune favors the bold. J. Moriarty may be exactly what he appears to be on this page, a busy man in need of someone to care for his house and keep it running smoothly so that he can work without having to think about the minutiae of day-to-day. The worst he can do is tell Sherlock to leave.

Sherlock smooths his hair and buttons his shirt to the collar. Everything he owns is waiting in a suitcase at the Brixton train station; if he gets the job, he'll fetch it and bring it to his new home.

If he doesn't...

No. He's not turning to Mycroft. Mycroft would be even more smug about that than Oliver MacKenzie and his ilk. Sherlock set out to prove he could earn a living on his own without any help from his dotty parents or overbearing brother, and he's done it for the past six years.

More or less. So what if he's got a large number of ex-clients on his C.V., that doesn't mean he does his job poorly. It just means he's ... well, Mummy used to say, "Sherlock's not himself around other people." It's still true, and it's more and more bothersome as he gets older.

He'll think about it later. He needs to get to Chelsea and the house of J. Moriarty before Hudson Staffing realize he's taken the listing and ruin everything.

It's a perfect time to splurge on a cab. Sherlock hails one, gives the address, and settles back in the seat with the blue folder clutched in his hands. He can stay out of his client's way quite easily; trouble arises when the client wants to _talk_. Some housekeepers, he supposes, would welcome the opportunity to be seen as a person and not a servant, but Sherlock does not. Talking is always the problem; talking is where he can't help but reveal all the things he's learned about the couple or the family, and no one likes hearing the truth about themselves.

But then it wasn't his fault that Mr. Townsend was having an affair with the nanny, or that Mrs. Benton started drinking when the children left for school and didn't stop until she went to bed, or that there is a secret second Mrs. Woodward tucked away in the Canary Islands.

It would be amazing, Sherlock thinks, to meet someone who is exactly what they appear to be.

*** *** ***

The address in Chelsea is the last in a row of pastel-colored houses with white windowpanes and black doors, so thoroughly unremarkable that Sherlock thinks it must be by design. There's a book shop at this end of the block, and a florist at the other. Across the street is a cafe where diners eat pastries and omelettes and drink tiny cups of strong-smelling coffee at cozy bistro tables.

On the sidewalk, Sherlock pays the cabbie and checks his appearance in the book shop window, and then climbs the steps to the house. Chin up, he rings the bell.

A moment passes before the door opens to reveal a tall, broad-chested young man with blue eyes and short red hair, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, no shoes on his pedicured feet. "Yes?" he says in a mild but businesslike tone.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I was sent by Hudson Staffing for the open position." He offers the blue and green folders.

A puzzled expression crosses the young man's face as he takes the folders. He opens the blue one and reads, and then looks at Sherlock for a moment like he doesn't quite know what to make of the situation. Still, he says, "All right, come through," and steps back to allow Sherlock inside.

He leads Sherlock to a sitting room. The interior is as tastefully perfect as the exterior. The passageway smells of beeswax candles and expensive cologne. Bursts of color are provided by paintings in the passageway, modern, beautiful, and worth a few million pounds altogether. Built-in bookcases break the rhythm of doors and paintings, and are full of books organized by the colors of their jackets. A staircase leads upstairs, with more paintings hung between the windows.

Sherlock thinks if he went into the garage he would not find a red Porsche. A black BMW, maybe. At most a Mini Cooper in emerald-green or night sky-blue.

"Wait here," the young man says, pointing to an armchair. "Mr. Moriarty will see you in a few minutes." He leaves, carrying the folders.

Sherlock sits and folds his hands together. A clock ticks in the passageway. He can't hear so much as a television broadcasting the daily news.

The sitting room is dark and masculine, sunlight muted by sheer curtains drawn over the windows. There's another painting hung over the mantlepiece, a piece by an up-and-coming artist that Sherlock knows sold for fifteen thousand pounds last year. 

The young man must be J. Moriarty's P.A.; if he were the butler he'd ask for Sherlock's coat. He sleeps and eats well, takes care of his appearance; his clothes were purchased off the rack at H&M, he uses a hair wax found in any midlevel salon --

Sherlock closes his eyes and mutters, "Stop it," and then opens them again and puts on a smile when he hears footsteps on the stair.

A moment later, another man appears in the doorway to the sitting room. He's in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and eyes, and a handsome face that is mild in expression. He wears a grey suit with a darker grey tie and a paler grey shirt, his hair slicked back, black Oxfords on his feet. He looks a bit like the house, in fact, perfect yet nondescript, as if designed for an unobservant eye to simply slide past.

"Mr. Holmes," he says in a soft, lilting voice. "I'm Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock stands and offers his hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Mr. Moriarty."

This is a test; some clients will not shake his hand, but instead will point him to the laundry or the kitchen and expect him to start without a word of explanation or introduction.

Jim Moriarty shakes Sherlock's hand. He says, "I'll take your coat," so Sherlock shrugs out of it and gives it to him before sitting again. Jim hangs the coat on a wood coat rack and takes in the chair opposite Sherlock, and they sit for a moment in silence, gazing at each other.

"So," Jim says without breaking their gaze. "You say you're from Hudson Staffing."

"Yes, that's right."

"Interesting." He opens the green folder and but doesn't look at the pages. "You've been a temporary housekeeper with them for six years."

"Yes," Sherlock says. 

"I called them," Jim says without looking away from Sherlock. "As they hadn't called me or my assistant to inform us you were on your way, as they normally do. I wanted to confirm your identity, which I have done, though the agent I spoke to said they let you go earlier today."

Sherlock's fingers clench together. "I can explain--"

"You're essentially a free agent."

"That's one way to look at it."

"That is how I will look at it." He closes the folder and tosses it onto the nearest end table, a keen gaze in his dark eyes. "Which means I'll pay you directly and include the percentage I would normally pay to the agency. To be honest, I hate interviewing and I appreciate initiative, so whatever happened between you and the agency is your own business."

Sherlock can breathe again. "Thank you, Mr. Moriarty."

"You'll have quarters of your own. You'll clean the house, cook the meals, wash the clothes, and so on. The rest of the time will be your own to do as you please. The only other resident is my assistant, Sebastian Moran, and he travels on my behalf about fifty percent of the month. If he requests your assistance with packing or things of that nature, please provide it."

"Of course, Mr. Moriarty."

The keen gaze continues, but he merely says, "Call me Jim. Do you need time to pack your things?"

"If I can move in tonight, I'll be ready to start tomorrow."

"Perfect." He rises. "I don't use physical keys. They're too easy to replicate. The front and back doors open with a code. I'll write it down for you." He leaves the sitting room. 

Sherlock exhales. His new employer is excessively private, which is fine with him; that'll just make it harder for Mycroft to track him down. Blunt, too, which is also fine. Perhaps he won't take offense if Sherlock forgets himself and makes a deduction. 

It's hard not to make deductions when everything is telegraphed so clearly; James Moriarty is a self-made man, wealthy enough to buy bespoke suits and send his assistant to do his face-to-face business for him; private enough to know exactly what picture to present to a new acquaintance in order to get the desired message across: _Stay out of my way_.

Sherlock can stay out of his way.

Jim returns once more and hands him a slip of paper, on which are written eight digits. "Don't lose that."

Sherlock memorizes it in a glance and gives it back. "Eidetic memory," he explains.

Jim tips his head a little. "And you work as a housekeeper?"

"It's -- probably more complicated than you're interested in hearing."

The keen gaze returns, but Jim says simply, "Tell me later," as Sherlock rises.

Sebastian Moran, the assistant, leans against the doorway and doesn't move out of the way as Sherlock walks to it. "So he's staying, then?" Sebastian asks Jim.

"He's staying."

Sebastian doesn't move. Sherlock gazes at him steadily as Sebastian's gaze travels over him from head to toe, until Jim says, a little sternness creeping into his soft voice, "Sebastian."

Sebastian steps back to let Sherlock pass, a sardonic smile on his lips, and leads Sherlock to the door. "See you when you come back," he says, "if you come back," and makes to close the door.

Sherlock says, "Why wouldn't I come back?"

"He hasn't told you the whole job yet." Sebastian shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and leans a hip against the door frame, the picture of sinuous grace. "I suspect most people would vehemently turn it down, once they know all the details."

"Would you?" Sherlock says in his coolest tone.

Sebastian throws back his head and laughs. "He'd have to ask me first." He closes the door.

Sherlock exhales, and checks his wallet for cash. After that taxi ride, he'd best take the train back to Brixton. It'll give him time to think about his new situation and its ecentric little household.

*** *** ***

It's evening when Sherlock returns with his suitcase and laptop bag. He lets himself into the house with the code, breathing another sigh of relief when it works, and is met on the stairs by Sebastian Moran.

"I didn't even have to let you in," Sebastian says in an impressed voice, and turns to lead him up the staircase. "I've always had to let new people in the first few days. Your room's this way." He takes Sherlock to a room at the end of the passage. "Jim is working and doesn't like to be disturbed. He said you want to start tomorrow."

"Is he all right with that?"

"Of course," Sebastian says with a shrug. "He's more easy-going than he may appear, to a point. He likes certain things to be exactly how he likes them, but the rest he doesn't care about."

"I see," Sherlock says. Jim Moriarty wouldn't be the first particular employer he's had. They're actually easier to keep happy, in his experience, when they have specific requirements rather than vague instructions. 

The room Sebastian gives him is like the rest of the house: restful colors, masculine lines. A single bed with a a walnut head- and footboard and blue coverlet faces the window. There's a wardrobe made of the same walnut in the opposite corner, beside a doorway that leads to a small private bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower. There's art even in this room, two small prints with matching frames, hung over the head of the bed. Not as expensive as the pieces downstairs, but a nice touch, nonetheless.

Sebastian says, "Jim will get you a desk for your laptop if you want one -- though there's not much room in here for more furniture," he adds in a musing tone as he looks around the room. "But you can use the kitchen table if you'd rather. Or any other desk or table, really. Jim only uses the desk in his office on the top floor."

"Do you eat with him?"

Sebastian shrugs. "When I'm here. I'll be gone in a few days for another week or so."

"What do you do for him?"

Sebastian's smile grows sardonic again, and he says, "I do whatever needs doing. Jim will tell you when he thinks you need to know." He adds briskly, "Jim has a breakfast meeting at eight, so you won't need to make anything for him in the morning. You _do_ cook, don't you?"

"I do," Sherlock says, "very well."

"Oh, _very_ well," Sebastian says. "Jim will be the judge of that." He leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock takes off his coat and hangs it in the wardrobe, and then sits on the bed with a sigh. He lies back, letting his head rest on the pillow. It's firm and smells new beneath the detergent-scent of the pillowcase. 

Sherlock lays his hand over his eyes. He can't turn off the observations, but maybe here it won't matter. Maybe this will be a good place for him for a while. 

The tension of the day has left him weary. Sherlock unpacks his few belongings and gets ready for bed, sets an alarm on his mobile and plugs in his laptop to recharge the battery. He'll get back to research and writing once he has a handle on the household's routine. He has Jim's permission already to do what he likes with his free time. Hopefully he'll have enough of it to be useful.

He's washed his face and cleaned his teeth when there's a knock at his door. "Sherlock? It's Jim." 

He doens't just barge in like some of Sherlock's employers have done. Another point in his favor. Sherlock opens the door. "Do you need anything, Jim?"

"No, just checking on you. Are you settled in all right?" He's changed out of his suit for the night; like Sebastian, he's a jeans-and-T-shirt man in his off-hours. Tonight's choice is a heather-green T-shirt that brings out the amber in his dark eyes.

Sherlock says, "Yes, thank you. Sebastian mentioned I could use any unused table in the house for a desk, is that all right?"

"Of course," Jim says. "Are you a writer in your spare time?"

"I write," Sherlock admits. "Nonfiction. True crime sorts of things."

"Are you published?"

"Only a few articles."

"I see," Jim muses. "Interesting. I'll be sure to allow you time for that. I've got a breakfast meeting in the morning and Sebastian will be with me, so don't worry about making breakfast for us. Good night, Sherlock." He starts to leave, then stops and turns back. "Have you eaten today?"

Sherlock starts to lie, then says, "I haven't."

"Oh, God, man," Jim says, "I'm not going to starve you. Come with me."

"I'm in my pajamas." A T-shirt and sleep pants, so he's hardly immodest, but what a strange first evening it would be to have a late-night snack with his employer.

Jim must not see it as a problem; he says, "So?" in a simple tone, so Sherlock turns off the light and follows him to the main floor and the kitchen in the back of the house. It's spotless, like it's rarely used or only used by someone obsessed with cleanliness, but well-stocked: there are apples and pears in the fruit basket and bread from a bakery in the bread-box, and staples like dried pasta and muesli in the pantry. 

"Ham sandwich? That's what I was going to make for myself," Jim says as he opens the fridge.

"Yes, thank you." Sherlock looks around the kitchen for something to help with, and decides to slice an apple for them. "Is Sebastian eating too?"

"He's gone out." Simply, like this is common. Sherlock supposes it is; if his housekeeper has plentiful free time, Jim's personal assistant must, too. "Mustard or mayonnaise?"

"Mustard." He washes and dries an apple, and says, "May I ask what it is you do, or is that one of the things you'll tell me when you've decided I need to know?"

Jim continues arranging lettuce and ham on thick slices of sourdough bread. "I'll tell you when I've decided you need to know."

"Very well," Sherlock says, and doesn't miss the keen look Jim gives him again before he returns to making their sandwiches. 

When their meal is assembled and on the table, Jim says, "I suppose now as as good a time as any to discuss your duties, unless you'd rather wait for Sebastian to do it tomorrow."

"Now is fine," Sherlock says and puts down his sandwich. "I'll get a notebook." He starts to rise, but Jim waves him back.

"Use mine." He hands Sherlock a pocket-sized notebook with a tiny pen clipped to the spine. He starts to talk, and Sherlock takes notes between bites.

The household's routine is specific but simple. Breakfast is at seven, lunch at noon, and supper is at six at night. Jim likes fresh coffee throughout the day, and wine with supper. He wants light food in small servings -- "I rarely have much of an appetite," he says in explanation, which is evidenced by the half-eaten sandwich he leaves on his plate.

Clothes and bed linens are laundered on Mondays, dry-cleaning is picked up on Fridays. The house must be tidy at all times. "Clients may come without warning," Jim says. "Sebastian or I will see to them, so you needn't worry about answering the door. Just have coffee ready once you hear the bell, and bring it to the sitting room when it's ready."

There is only one room in the house Sherlock isn't to touch: Jim's office, which Jim tells him is locked with a different code than the house doors. "I'll tidy it and leave trash out to be collected when necessary," Jim says.

"Surely it's not worth the bother for you," Sherlock says.

Jim smiles a little and pinches a bit of crust off his sandwich. "Plausible deniability," he says simply and pops it into his mouth.

Sherlock merely nods and underlines _Stay out of Jim's office_ , twice. He says, "Sebastian said there was another aspect to this job, that would make most people leave," and looks up at Jim for his reaction.

Jim, though, only continues looking mild, his chin resting on his hand. "Originally there was," he says. "I'm not sure if we'll get to that yet."

"I know I'm not exactly what you asked for."

"You're not," Jim says, "but I find increasingly that I don't mind. Finished?" He stands and takes their plates, dumps the crumbs into the compost bin and places the plates in the washer. He says as he closes the washer door, "I'll tell you more about it when you want to tell me why a man with an eidetic memory and an interest in true crime works as a housekeeper rather than as a journalist or something similar."

"Writing is less lucrative than you might think," Sherlock says.

Jim gives him a patient look. "Sherlock."

Sherlock gazes at him in return, then sighs and looks away. "Another time."

"Your secrets are yours to reveal when you're ready," Jim says, "as are mine. Good night, Sherlock. Don't worry if you hear movement in the night. It'll be Sebastian coming home." He leaves the kitchen.

Sherlock washes the knife and cutting board he used with the apple, and then grabs one more apple from the basket and pours himself a glass of milk. He takes them to his room, and settles into his bed with his laptop on his knees. He eats the apple and drinks the milk as he writes in his diary, and leaves the glass on his nightstand to take to the kitchen in the morning.

As he settles into bed, he realizes he's still got Jim's notebook. He opens it to the front pages, curious, and smiles to himself when he sees Jim has written, _Let go this morning_ on the front page and nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> This owes a lot to _Miss Pettigrew Lives For a Day_ , my favorite Cinderella story.
> 
> More tags will be added as this thing progresses. 
> 
> I have had increasingly conflicted and complicated thoughts about the sex work aspect of this plot as time has gone on. I do plan for sex to occur; whether money exchanges hands for it remains to be seen.


End file.
